


Quick Draw

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Adjacent [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe that's not a tag, M/M, accidental pepper spraying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-16 15:36:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15440229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft reacts on instinct when he thinks he's being followed. He kind of is - by his new neighbour. If he's lucky, the man won't press charges. In his mind, that's the best possible outcome, but the universe has more in store for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: "I just pepper sprayed you because I thought you were following me, but it turns out you live three apartments from me. Now you're at my apartment because I wanted to help you, and you just called me pretty."

The scream was louder than Mycroft had expected; he’d never actually pepper-sprayed anyone before. The other man was hunched over, clawing at his eyes, swearing through gritted teeth.

The canister was still clenched in his nervous fingers as Mycroft tried to decide what to do next. Now that he was looking at the man he suspected had been following him he wasn’t nearly as frightened. Few people were walking home at this time of night, and the two of them had taken three corners in the same direction. Even someone without his training would have noticed.

Mycroft’s heart had started pounding after the second turn. By the third he was gripping the canister in his coat pocket, breathing through his mouth as he tried to anticipate the moment of attack. He slowed as he approached the entrance to his block of flats; when the footsteps slowed too, closer behind him than they had been, Mycroft’s nerve broke and he turned. It was like slow motion, the wrench of his hand out of his coat, turning, his eyes seeking the target, finger pressing down before he’d even really sighted his opponent. He hadn’t hit his target exactly, but enough had hit to stop the man in his tracks.

It was only now, watching the man wipe ineffectually at the tears streaming down his face as he coughed hard, that Mycroft’s brain made a suggestion based on his split second observation earlier.

_Surprised expression, no defensive action, earbuds in, hands carrying…shopping bags?_

Mycroft blinked, realising his error. Whatever this man’s agenda, it appeared to be increasingly unlikely it was focussed on Mycroft.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, wincing at the absurd question. Of course he wasn’t. Temporary blindness, burning, skin irritation – the list of injuries appeared automatically in his mind. Injuries he had caused.

“Please, let me help you,” Mycroft said, throwing the canister away, stepping towards the man. He picked up the shopping bags, wincing as something dripped audibly on the concrete.

“Water,” the gasping figure managed. His plea spurred Mycroft to action. Abandoning his umbrella and the shopping bags to the garden bed, Mycroft put one arm tentatively around the broad shoulders of the man, helping him forward. The locks were a challenge; Mycroft managed them one handed, his other hand clenched around the stumbling man’s waist.

Thank God his flat was only one flight up.

Finally, they made it into his flat; he steered them into the kitchen, sitting the poor man down.

“Here,” Mycroft said, a minute or so later. He guided the man’s outstretched hand to a washcloth soaked in soapy water, the quickest way he knew to break down the oil in the pepper spray. He crouched before the hunched figure, holding the bowl below his chin, murmuring soft apologies to give the man an idea where he was.

“The bowl is right below your chin,” he said quietly. “Rinse your face if you wish. The soap will help remove the spray.” After a few moments he offered a towel, watching rough fingers press the fabric to swollen skin. He placed the bowl and cloth on the sink before turning back, having opened his first aid kit.

“I have medicated wipes,” Mycroft said, removing the towel gently, replacing it with the pre-soaked sponges. “They are safe for your eyes, but will break down the oil further.” He winces along with the man as the first wipe touches his marginally opened eye. “They should sooth the irritation, too,” Mycroft added, tone apologetic.

As the man continued to wipe his face, Mycroft stood to fill the kettle, seeking the comfort of familiar routine. Tea in the pot, milk in the jug; choosing two mugs was a jolt to his psyche. When the kettle boiled he filled the teapot, allowing it to steep as he turned back to face his embarrassment.

The man opposite him was still wiping at his eyes, a small pile of sponges sitting on the table beside him. His hair was a shock of silver and grey, skin olive, based on the back of his hand. Not being able to see the face clearly was frustrating, Mycroft acknowledged. So much information came from a person’s expression, their reaction to the words and actions of others.

Instead he swept his gaze over the rest of the person sitting before him. Casual clothes from a chain store that sat comfortably on the sturdy body he remembered from their joint trip up from the street. The obvious discomfort masked his usual posture, however the lack of cursing or nasty comments spoke to a surprisingly calm and even tempered individual.

Mycroft was intrigued.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked tentatively. His guest sat up, sighing in what Mycroft hoped was relief. His eyes were still closed and quite swollen. Mycroft winced again at the angry redness staining the top half of his face.

“Not my best,” the man said. His mouth twisted wryly, a chuckle of amusement coming from him. “I’m gathering you didn’t actually mean to spray me down there?”

Mycroft was both relieved at the man’s lack of antagonism and puzzled by it. “No,” he said quietly. “I thought you were following me.” He swallowed. “Please accept my sincere apologies. I can have medical personnel here within thirty minutes if you would like. If you require time off from work to recover I can ensure your employer is compensated for your paid leave.” He stopped, wondering if there was anything he had missed. Should he make an offer for pain and suffering? It was possible the man would wish to press charges of assault, which would reflect poorly on Mycroft. He would bear it of course, given his obvious culpability in the matter.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been sprayed,” the man said. “And seriously, you’ve given me better first aid than I had last time.” He grinned, eyes still closed. “Sarge thought we should know what it’s like before we hit the streets.”

“Ah,” Mycroft murmured, adjusting to the new information. _Police officer. Younger than I thought; his hair is misleading. Understanding, good natured, patient._

“May I offer you tea?” Mycroft asked, his internal timer chiming as the tea came ready.

“A cuppa’d be great,” the man murmured. “I’m Greg, by the way. Lestrade.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he replied, pouring two mugs of tea. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, “both, thanks. M’not fussy about how much.”

Mycroft hesitated before making two identical mugs. He placed one mug beside Greg, discretely taking the used medicinal wipes. “Your tea is beside you,” he said quietly. “It is hot, of course. Please be careful.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, not sure I can bear any more burns.”

Mycroft felt his face flame. “I am sorry,” he said into his mug.

“Look, it’s fine,” Greg replied. “I know it wasn’t on purpose. Christ, I hadn’t even noticed I was walking the same way as you. Just walking home from Tesco, thinking about making a curry or something.”

Mycroft nodded. “You live close by, then?” he asked. For the awkwardness there could be, Greg seemed completely relaxed, sipping his tea, keeping his eyes closed. Not bothered about his injury, the pain he must still be in, or the fact that he hasn’t even seen Mycroft.

“Pretty sure this is the building, actually,” Greg replied. “I only moved in last week. Flat 23.”

“That’s next door,” Mycroft said automatically. There was a pause, and he felt a smile tug at his lips. “You’d be the musical theatre fan.”

The redness precluded an obvious blush, but Greg squirmed, a rueful grin on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of loving Hamilton at the moment.”

“I had noticed,” Mycroft replied. There was a silence, Mycroft’s brain reminding him of the sounds coming through the wall as his new neighbour moved in. It had been a little irritating until an enthusiastic tenor had joined in, rapping along with the lines, trying for – and mainly failing to reach – the high notes of the female roles. Mycroft had initially locked himself in his flat, closing the French doors from his living-room to minimise the noise transfer.

The unselfconscious singing changed things. Endearing was not a term Mycroft used often, but he found himself propping his window open, turning off the classical piano he’d been playing to mask some of the sound. The pitch wasn’t that accurate, and there was quite a lot of fumbling over the fast lyrics. The singer was obviously enjoying himself, laughing as he missed high notes. Mycroft found himself wondering if the unseen man was dancing. Immediately he pictured a man opening boxes, dancing as he placed books on shelves, smiling to himself as he mastered a difficult passage of lyrics.

This man sitting before him was that man. The singer, relaxed enough to sing loud enough to be heard next door, was sitting in his kitchen, face a swollen mess because of his ill-considered actions.

It was hard to reconcile.

“Look,” Greg said, “I can’t really see right now, did you see my groceries? I probably dropped them all over the street somewhere.”

“Yes!” Mycroft blurted. He practically dropped his tea, saying, “I won’t be a moment!” as he bolted out the door, berating himself for forgetting. The bags were still crumpled in the flowerbeds and he collected as much as he could, careful to avoid the broken glass, grateful there were no eggs to contend with. His umbrella hooked over his arm as he struggled back inside.

“You’ve lost your pasta sauce, I’m sorry to say,” Mycroft said as he walked back into his kitchen. “Everything else appears to be intact.”

“That’s what I get for buying so much packaged stuff,” Greg replied, grinning. “Good thing there were no eggs, right?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, the shared idea somehow warming him. They had the same thought about his groceries. It was hardly indicative of a suitable match…

“Would you…are you hungry? I would be happy to arrange a meal,” Mycroft said. When Greg began to protest he allowed it, simply taking out his phone to text an order for curry and sides to Anthea. He could feel her curiosity at the ‘enough for two’ in his message and was grateful he didn’t have to explain it.

“Greg,” Mycroft said, pocketing his phone, placing milk and yoghurt and beef in the fridge. When the protestations ceased, he said simply, “our meal will arrive in half an hour. I assume by ‘curry’ you meant the Indian variety.”

Greg pursed his lips, then said, “Yeah. Thanks, that’s really kind.”

“The least I can do,” Mycroft murmured, surveying Greg. “Would an ice pack soothe your face? You could lie on the sofa with a cold compress until the food arrives.”

“That sounds amazing,” Greg said. The relief in his voice made guilt flow afresh in Mycroft.

“Let me show you to the sitting room,” Mycroft said. He hesitated. “Unless you’d…the bathroom…”

“Oh, yeah…please,” Greg replied, carefully replacing his empty mug on the table.

They managed the awkward situation before Mycroft guided him to the sofa. “I’ll just be a moment,” he murmured. A pair of wet cloths folded and placed in the freezer; a soft medical icepack taken out, wrapped in a dishcloth. In only a moment he was kneeling beside Greg, who was lying on the sofa.

“I’m here,” Mycroft said, not wanting to startle his guest. Greg turned his head in response, so Mycroft placed the medi-pack in his hand, not wanting to impose on his personal space.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured. He winced a little as the cold hit his skin, but the groan afterwards was all relief.

“Better?” Mycroft managed. He’d been hoping for causal, but the sound of that groan had triggered something deep within him. It was…appealing. Pleased his guest’s eyes were closed, Mycroft swallowed as quietly as possible, knowing his reaction was visible all over his face.

“Yeah,” Greg groaned again.

Another stab of interest, and Mycroft kept his mouth closed, not knowing what to say. Greg was silent, either enjoying the relief or bearing the pain, Mycroft did not know.

After fifteen minutes he stood, padding quietly over to the freezer to collect an almost frozen cloth, returning to the side of the sofa.

“A new washcloth, if you’d like,” Mycroft murmured. Greg hummed, taking the new cloth, replacing the medi-pack on his face.

“Thanks,” Greg said again. “You don’t have to do all this.” A faint grin appeared under the washcloth. “I’m not the litigating kind.”

A knot of tension Mycroft didn’t know existed untied itself. “You would be within your rights,” he murmured. Before he could stop himself, he added, “which you would know, as a police officer.”

The washcloth twitched and Mycroft wondered if Greg’s eyebrows had shifted. “How do you know that?”

Mycroft held his tongue, allowing his mind to consider his response. “A number of observations,” he answered carefully.

“Such as?” Greg asked. He sounded interested, almost amused; not annoyed or angry.

Mycroft took a chance on the truth.

“Your schedule is irregular, long hours,” Mycroft began. “You mentioned ‘Sarge’ spraying you with pepper spray before you hit the streets. You referred to litigation, hence a familiarity with legal terms.” He paused, wondering if he should add the rest of the more personal observations.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Greg said into the silence.

Before Mycroft could reply there was a knock at the door. “The dinner,” he said quietly. Greg nodded a little, and Mycroft stood to answer the door, looking for a moment at the man still lying on his sofa.

When the food was sorted, sitting on his small kitchen table, Mycroft returned to the sitting room.

“Would you prefer to eat here?” he asked Greg, ignoring his discomfort at the idea.

To his immense surprise, Greg snorted. “I can hear in your voice you’d rather I didn’t,” he said. He sat up slowly, holding the cold pack to his face for a moment. “Won’t get asked back if I break the house rules, will I?”

Mycroft processed the words, though his reaction took a little longer to understand. He was…confused.

“You would…would that be something you’d like?” Mycroft asked hesitantly. He’d pepper sprayed this man, and yet he was still considering returning? In Mycroft’s mind, it was fortunate Greg was not considering pressing charges. This change of direction was completely unexpected. Not unwelcome, he admitted to himself.

“Pepper spray aside,” Greg said, removing the cold pack, squinting and blinking at the floor, “this has been…not terrible.”

“Not terrible,” Mycroft repeated.

“Good,” Greg said. “Almost fun, kind of.” He grinned, eyes almost open, though his face was still red. Mycroft wondered how sore his eyes were – would he even be able to see?

As he watched, almost in slow motion, Greg stood up. Mycroft didn’t realise how close their feet were; Greg was standing very close. Close enough to see the redness surrounding his eyes. Close enough to see the bloodshot eyes, swollen and inflamed around dark brown irises. Eyes that were crinkled, smiling at him. Looking at him as though…

“Wow,” Greg said, his voice soft, the smile threading through the sound. “You’re prettier than I imagined.”

Mycroft felt his jaw drop for the first time in decades. Was this man _flirting_ with him? Immediately his heart started pounding, eyes widening as they traitorously flickered to Greg’s mouth and back.

Greg smiled at him. The irritation didn’t dull the sparkle in those gorgeous eyes, Mycroft’s brain noted through his shock. His mind finally processed Greg’s words.

“And you bought me dinner and everything.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft froze, head snapping up like a rabbit in headlights.

Nobody ever knocked at his door. Ever.

He had been living in this flat for eleven months and four days and in that time only two couriers and a lost pizza delivery person had knocked.

None had been expected. None had been permitted entry.

Until now.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft approached the door, checking his tie and smoothing his waistcoat automatically as he moved closer. It felt like he was moving in slow motion, and with a sudden spark of hesitance he called out.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was amused, and the smile on his face was exactly what Mycroft had pictured in the seconds between hearing his voice and opening the door. “We both know nobody else visits.”

“True,” Mycroft murmured, stepping back to allow his neighbour in. Greg passed closer than strictly necessary, holding the pan with two clothed hands. It smelled of tomatoes and onions and something rich and deep.

“Leave it open,” Greg called behind him, “there’s more to come.”

Mycroft stood with a look of mild surprise on his face as Greg hustled past twice more bearing some kind of electric cooking device and an armload of containers. He was still standing by the door when Greg ducked his head around the doorframe, body still in his own apartment.

“Red or white?”

“Pardon?” Mycroft stepped out into the hall, processing the question. “I don’t know what you’ve cooked, Greg, I can’t make an informed-”

“Just tell me what you like to drink.” Greg had interrupted Mycroft, an act which would have cost him his professional career – had they such a relationship. Mycroft had no idea what kind of relationship they had so he allowed it to pass this once.

“Red is my preference.” Mycroft stood awkwardly in the hall as Greg ducked back into his flat, then back out, slamming his door behind him.

“Ready?” Greg asked, as though Mycroft had not been waiting for him. The easy grin was enough to excuse him, and Mycroft found himself suppressing a smile as he followed Greg, securing the door behind them.

“Now, don’t tell me you didn’t even make a guess at what I just brought in here,” Greg said from the kitchen, drawing Mycroft in to continue the conversation. He’d made himself right at home, Mycroft could see; heavy saucepan on the stove, electric device plugged in on the bench, containers all over the table. Right now he was rifling through the top drawer for what Mycroft could only assume was a corkscrew, given the bottle of wine still in his hand. Silently he reached into the correct drawer and handed it to Greg.

“Ta,” he said, glancing at Mycroft as he opened the bottle. “Probably should let that breathe for a bit.”

“We should,” Mycroft allowed. This comfortable rapport did not come naturally to him, especially given the unspecified parameters of their relationship. Mycroft shifted, watching the muscles of Greg’s shoulders work under his dark t-shirt. It was oddly mesmerising. With nothing concrete to do, Mycroft stood by the door, waiting for a cue from Greg as to his next move.

Wine bottle open Greg turned, hiding his shoulders, presenting instead the planes of his chest to Mycroft. The silver head was tilted, and Mycroft noted body language automatically: arms crossed, but casually, hip resting against the bench, one foot turned, pressing sideways against the floor.

_Comfortable, relaxed. Enjoying himself, positive frame of mind. Not defensive, despite the events of last week._

“This isn’t something you usually do, is it?” Greg said. They’d texted a lot over the past six days, and from his comments, Greg had developed a startlingly acute sense for how Mycroft worked. It was still quietly disconcerting when Greg understood his silences.

“This?” Mycroft repeated. “As we established this week, Greg, I rarely have visitors.”

“Three,” Greg said immediately. “You’ve had three people knock on your door. Well, four now, including me.”

“There have been other people in this flat,” Mycroft protested.

“Your PA does not count, either do cleaners or anyone fixing or installing anything,” Greg countered. He frowned. “What about family?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. He put enough into his voice to warn Greg off asking. Now was not the time to discuss his fairly, not matter how obliquely.

“Fair enough,” Greg said, taking the hint. “I didn’t necessarily mean ‘having people over’, though. More…this,” he waved one hand between the two of them.

“And what is ‘this’?” Mycroft asked, mimicking the same action. His heart thudded a little harder in his chest as he asked the question that had been plaguing him since their text conversation had solidified ephemeral plans into this definite evening, Greg coming over to cook – or finish cooking – dinner for him.

What was it, exactly? A friendship, gratitude, lonely neighbours staving off their own company for a few hours? Or…his mind wouldn’t allow him to finish the thought, despite the gentle flirting he’d felt over their shared meal last week, when Greg’s face was still inflamed and he felt the shame and embarrassment every time he looked at the reddened skin.

“Well I don’t know about you,” Greg said, a grin tugging at one side of his face, “but I was kind of hoping it’s a date.” His eyes scanned Mycroft, a hint of anxiety developing as he asked, “I haven’t read this wrong, have I?”

“No,” Mycroft managed, his voice barely audible over his now thundering heart. _A date_. “Not…wrong.”

“Surprised, though?” Greg asked.

“I did pepper spray you, Greg,” Mycroft reminded him. “How is your face, by the way?”

“Totally healed,” he said. “Had a shower when I got home the other night, plenty of soap, used the rest of those wipes, right as rain the next morning.” At Mycroft’s disbelieving look, he added, “Okay, it was a bit tender, but fine now. Seriously.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. He was still adjusting to the acknowledgement that this was a date. The information did not make him any more easy with the situation; he had as little dating experience as he had social experience.

“Anyway, I made curry, I hope that’s okay,” Greg said. “I mean, I figured, since we made a good go of that take away, and it was what I’d planned on the other night.” He pointed to the silver bucket contraption now bubbling away. “I do cheat a bit, the rice cooker is much easier than keeping an eye on the stove.”

“It sounds excellent,” Mycroft said honestly. He watched Greg start to open containers, revealing an array of pickled vegetables, pakora, and a dough of some description.

“You make your own pakora?” Mycroft asked, impressed. “And…is that naan dough?”

Greg nodded, concentrating on making sure it didn’t burn. “You could grab me a plate, if that’s okay,” he said without taking his eyes from the cooking bread. When Mycroft placed a serving dish beside him, Greg slowly but surely filled it with perfectly cooked naan.

“Looks like the timing’s just about right,” he said. “I usually just pile it all on one plate, don’t bother too much with courses, hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied immediately. He turned to find plates, cursing his ineptitude as host. Too distracted by those shoulders, his brain told him. He ignored the thought, finding plates, cutlery, serving spoons and wine glasses as Greg gave the bubbling curry a last stir.

They moved carefully around each other, filling plates with Greg’s offering. Mycroft poured the wine and they moved to the other end of the small table, shifting dishes out of the way to make room.

“Cheers,” Greg said, raising his glass. Mycroft touched the crystal of his glass to Greg’s, holding the warm brown eyes as he did so.

“Thank you for this meal,” Mycroft said before picking up his fork.

“Don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it,” Greg replied. “Might be terrible.”

“I doubt it,” Mycroft replied. “It smells divine.”

His assertion was proved as they ate, the rich flavour of the curry inspiring him to eat far more than he usually did.

“Excellent, as predicted,” Mycroft said finally, his plate empty.

“Not bad,” Greg said, but the sparkle in his eyes said he agreed with Mycroft. The wine had matched well enough, and Mycroft was startled to realise the bottle was nearly empty.

“Come on, there’s something I want to show you.” Greg’s voice was warm from across the table.

Mycroft looked at the dishes in protest. Surely it would be better to attend to them immediately?

“Nope,” Greg said, and Mycroft blinked, unused to his thoughts being read so easily. “Come next door with me,” Greg urged.

Mycroft shrugged, taking their plates to the sink and rinsing them before stacking in the dishwasher. The small act of rebellion complete he stood, ready to follow Greg, who was waited patiently. The curiosity grew as he locked his own door and waited to enter Greg’s flat.

It was much as he had pictured, though tidier; the boxes were gone, and the space was tidier than he’d imagined.

“I’m very into musicals,” Greg told him, “but I do like more classical pieces as well.”

He stepped over to the stereo and pressed play. Mycroft braced himself for something amusing, a twist of the definition of ‘classical’.

Instead the gentle notes of a piano began, and Mycroft felt himself truly surprised for the first time in a very long time. As he stood, listening to the music grow, Greg turned off the lights, leaving only a wild tangle of tiny fairy lights crossing the top of one wall. The dim light was almost warm, and Mycroft’s eyes took a few moments to adjust.

“This is…” he began, eyes wide in disbelief as he sought Greg.

“The music you were playing to cover up my singing,” Greg said, and the smile was visible even in the low light. “I could hear it. Thin walls go both ways.”

Mycroft felt himself blush, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from Greg’s. “My apologies,” he murmured.

“No worries,” Greg said, stepping closer, drawing Mycroft into a slow, drifting embrace, too slow and aimless to really be dancing. His hand was warm on Mycroft’s back, firm and gentle, holding him close. “I figured we’d meet somewhere in the middle, eventually.”

“Musicals are not my favourite, Greg,” Mycroft said, finding his arms wound around Greg’s shoulders, his fingers stroking the short hairs at the base of his skull.

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” Greg whispered, and the words were a prelude to the press of his lips on Mycroft’s. The swaying continued, or it might have been Mycroft alone; he found himself floating, anchored only by Greg’s lips moving over his, his hands, both now pressing against Mycroft’s lower back, bringing him even closer.

He tasted of butter and wine, somehow better than in the meal they had shared, and Mycroft marvelled that the flavours were so clear when he had eaten the same food. _His chemistry changed them_. _Like he is changing me._

The thought made him shiver, and he pressed closer, tilting his head, seeking more.

Greg groaned, his fingers tightening against Mycroft’s back. It was intoxicating; sexual partners were not a new concept but this, this intimacy was new. This effect, his sudden desire to draw pleasure out of his partner, for the sake of giving rather than perfunctory reciprocity…

He shuddered, pulling Greg closer, sliding out of the kiss to press his face into warm skin, fabric pressing against his cheek. Greg’s neck smelled good; Mycroft breathed deeply, needing to ground himself suddenly. It was good, it was all good, but…

“Bit much?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded into Greg’s shoulder. Even his brain’s use of the word ‘good’ as an adjective twice in a row was an indication of how much this was affecting him. Grateful for Greg’s acuity, embarrassed by his own weakness.

“I know,” Greg whispered. “It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it.”

Mycroft nodded again, his heart easing at Greg’s admission. _It’s not just me, then._ He pulled a little closer, amazed that the closeness eased him as much as it did. Greg was still unfamiliar, but rather than making him nervous, Mycroft found himself yearning to discover, thrilling at the moments ahead where he could learn all there was to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this could easily have a lovely long smutty chapter to round it out. Most of these stories are about the meeting, though, so there won't be so much E rated action. You'll have to use your imagination ;)


End file.
